


all you are is all i ever need

by littleghost (orphan_account)



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Moving Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:44:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/littleghost
Summary: Dan and I went grocery shopping together. He wanted pulp orange juice (again) so I lied and said I didn’t mind pulp. I can barely stand it.or: pulpgate





	all you are is all i ever need

**Author's Note:**

> written to get rid of writers block and i listened to ed sheeran the entire time i was writing. based on [this](http://68.media.tumblr.com/d6d10cb9833a2050ee5cea52de3f5f3d/tumblr_op4pivqd9h1u6d3npo1_400.jpg)

Dan is helping Phil pack up his room because, well, he doesn’t want to pack up his. He’s stalling, either from procrastination or a subliminal fear of change, but nevertheless, he’s helping Phil pack up his room. 

It’s fun, because they’re finding things that they both forgot about. At one point, Dan finds a forgotten carton of sweets, the expiration date almost three years ago. He throws it at Phil, who squawks as it hits him in the back.

“Dan!” he says, turning around to–glare, maybe. The effect is ruined because Phil has had a fond look on his face the entire day, and he looks far from annoyed. “Don’t throw things.”

Dan shrugs. “Don’t lose food in here for three years,” he says, and Phil picks up the carton.

He laughs and tosses it into the trash bag. “I’m amazed I never found that.”

They lapse back into silence, save for the soft melodies of a soundtrack, and they fall back into the routine of folding and packing. It’s times like these when Dan’s really hit with it; they’re moving, things are changing, they’re one step closer to something more. Seven years is an awfully long time.

He opens a bottom drawer, and drags all of the miscellaneous items out. Socks, random pens, a few chargers, and a composition notebook. He packs away the other items, but flips through the book. Some of the words are falling under the line, like Phil wasn’t looking at what he was writing.

“What’s this?” Dan asks, holding up the notebook so Phil can see it.

Phil reaches out for it, brows furrowed. “Don’ know. I used to keep a journal so maybe this is one of those.” He starts flipping through it, and Dan abandons his post by the dresser to sit next to Phil.

It’s familiar, sitting side-by-side, lined up from shoulders to thighs, their elbows jostling because Dan is always on Phil’s right.

“Wanna go through it?” Dan asks, but he reaches out and opens to the first page. It’s dated on the top, from 2013. “God, this is old,” Dan says, skimming through the entry. Something about his video, how Dan plays piano loudly in the morning, how he’s tired of walking up all those stairs.

Phil protests when Dan flips the page. “You wrote it,” Dan tells him, and keeps skimming and flipping. 

The entries aren’t day-to-day, and entire weeks are lost, but that’s mainly because their day-to-day lives are usually boring and go the same way. Any time they go outside is carefully documented, as is every instance Phil has been overcome with affection for Dan.

It’s really sweet.

“I’m gonna need to take pictures of this for posterity,” Dan says after reading a full paragraph of Phil rambling about how cute Dan is—while scrolling through Tumblr. 

“No way,” Phil says, and moves to tug the journal out of Dan’s hands, but he holds on tighter.

“You documented us going grocery shopping?” he asks, incredulous.

“Oh, no, you don’t get to read that,” Phil says, and tugs harder, but Dan is gripping the journal so hard his knuckles are almost white.

_ Dan and I went grocery shopping together. He wanted pulp orange juice (again) so I lied and said I didn’t mind pulp. I can barely stand it. _

“You hate pulp orange juice?” Dan asks. “That’s all we’ve gotten for the last five years.”

Phil shrugs. “You like it so I just kept buying it. ‘Sides, it’s healthier, right?”

“Yeah, but you can ‘barely stand it’,” Dan presses. “It’s not like you’re totally indifferent towards pulp.”

“I grew to like it,” he says, tugging the journal out of Dan’s hands. He places it in a box instead of the trash and Dan grins.

He pokes Phil in the side. “Liar,” he accuses, but there’s no real heat behind his words.

Phil laughs, and moves away, but Dan wraps an arm around his waist. “No, you’re not leaving.” He leans his head on Phil’s shoulder and closes his eyes, wanting to keep the moment.

“No, I’m not,” Phil agrees, taking Dan’s other hand. It feels like he’s talking about something bigger, that edge they’re about to fall down, but Dan isn’t around of falling.

“Good,” Dan says.

(In the new apartment, Dan starts a grocery list on the fridge. At the very top, he writes  **orange juice—no pulp!!!** in giant print. Phil still comes back with the pulped kind.)


End file.
